


a full lifetime ago

by dakohtah



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, George Washington is a Dad, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Slow Burn, Thomas Jefferson Being an Asshole, Too Many Pop Culture References, and then it became a mess beyond my control, but not a real dad, he just picks up strays tbh, heavily inspired by story 2 by clipping. tbh, hopefully anyway lmao, street crime, the clipping!Thomas AU no one asked for lmao, they have a strong bond, with some heavy jeffmads bromance, you dont wanna know about it here but i'll tell you one thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-04-27 15:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14428182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakohtah/pseuds/dakohtah
Summary: “I asked you to stay in New York under the assumption you would work to better your circumstances, Thomas.”Thomas barely bit back the sigh clawing out of his throat. Unsuccessful avoidance, Major Thom. Engage emergency diversion tactics.“Yeah? Well, you know what they say. You can take the kid out of the trap, dot dot dot,” he sing-songed over his shoulder before flipping on the coffeemaker and turning to regard James seriously. Three minutes in Thomas’ house and he looked eons older than he was, like the bulk of his friend’s mistakes were a tangible mass saturating the air.Weighing him down, like Thomas always had.





	1. godsmack is how the wind feels

The sound of someone breaking down the door.

All Thomas could see was smoke, and the heady scent of marijuana was almost overwhelming him. Jesus, it was warm, but it didn’t smell like a house fire. He would know, after all, but that’s why he left home. It had been months since then and he had no reason to start feeling guilty now. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but all Thomas could see was smoke and he heard screaming — and Jesus, were there kids in there? — and the sound of someone breaking down the door. 

His hands were hot. Too hot, like he’d been holding them over an open flame. Like his grip had slipped and he’d had to catch a pistol by its barrel too soon after firing it, running parallel to the sidewalk, just out of the streetlamps’ reach. Like he was still brushing ashes out of his hair, out of his eyes, but it was bright like snow on the skyline and choking him like Pompeii. Inescapable, like the steady pound of his sneakers on packed earth and the sound of someone breaking down the door.

He knew it wasn’t real, wasn’t natural, because it’s not like Thomas was a stranger to a little heat. His AC had been broken since before he’d even put a deposit down on the apartment, and he had been raised in Virginia, besides. New York summers weren’t anything like what he’d been used to in the South. But Thomas was too hot, and it was all so familiar.

He could almost swear he was back home, thirteen years old and playing basketball in a trailer park. A sweltering summer with humid heat, a cold glass of water pressed against his forehead, and he could hear his mama calling him to come back home and screaming kids and the sound of someone breaking down the door and —

The sound of someone breaking down the door?

Cops? 

Thomas jerked himself out of bed, stumbling onto his feet and tripping over yesterday’s discarded clothes that hadn’t quite made it into a basket. The apartment was small enough that his head was still spinning by the time he made it to the door, hands snagging painfully on cornrows as he forgot, again, that he hadn’t had his hair loose in nearly two weeks. The door was mercifully intact when he ripped it open mid-knock, recoiling to avoid the heavy hand responsible for his rude awakening.

The solid second of eye contact that ensued was excruciating in its silence, and Thomas was sure that his panicked expression wasn’t exactly inviting. He rubbed his face in his hands and released a relieved curse as he slumped, “Jemmy.”

James Madison seemed to straighten in his doorway, earning a bedraggled cringe for his efforts. He’d always been more than a head shorter than Thomas, even since they met in high school when he’d kicked the shit out of the kids who had been calling James a crack baby. And even since high school, his height hadn’t mattered by a single iota. He’d always been the only one who could cow any number of Thomas’ moods in an instant: the yen to his yang. It helped that James had been born with a glare that could match any disappointed mother’s. 

“Thomas,” he seized this opportunity to level Thomas with a long and appraising look, “I don’t suppose you realize it’s, oh? One in the afternoon? A fine time for civilized people to be wide awake, wouldn’t you say?” James analyzed his nails as he spoke, the absolute motherfucker. Thomas really had missed him when he’d left Virginia.

Thomas snorted, turning from the doorway as he made a beeline for the coffeemaker, “Jem-Jam, buddy, d’you need a ladder? ‘Cause it’s about time you got down off my back.” He shot a cheeky grin over his shoulder in time to see James seat himself at the kitchen table with a distasteful glance at the severed top of a two-liter bottle. Well, no real excuses for what he’d been using that for. Thomas quickly busied himself with measuring out coffee grounds to avoid another round of Not Angry, Just Disappointed—The James Madison Edition.

“I asked you to stay in New York under the assumption you would work to better your circumstances, Thomas.”

Thomas barely bit back the sigh clawing out of his throat. Unsuccessful avoidance, Major Thom. Engage emergency diversion tactics. 

“Yeah? Well, you know what they say. You can take the kid out of the trap, dot dot dot,” he sing-songed over his shoulder before flipping on the coffeemaker and turning to regard James seriously. Three minutes in Thomas’ house and he looked eons older than he was, like the bulk of his friend’s mistakes were a tangible mass saturating the air.

Weighing him down, like Thomas always had. “You look like you are in desperate need of at least one pancake,” he prescribed gravely. “No? Jem, you’ve always driven a hard bargain! Two pancakes, but that’s my highest offer!”

Dead silence, and Thomas knew that James wanted nothing more than to press the issue.

He remembered the sound of James’ voice—absolutely stricken, as if he was the one on the run—through the crackling signal of a burner cell phone when Thomas had begged him for a ride to New York. When everything had broken bad in Virginia and he’d had to wait in a Waffle House across the West Virginia border for nine hours while James drove down the east coast in the middle of the night on a Wednesday. James hadn’t given a damn that he’d had to call work off for their impromptu road trip. That Thomas hadn’t even found a free second to talk to him in almost half a year before he’d called. That, even as he picked him up, Thomas had still stunk like fire and sweat and guilt. James had done it all without a second thought. All for Thomas.

All for Thomas to pay him back by living in the projects and leaving a hand-rigged gravity bong on the kitchen table. As if he was proud of it. As if this was all he ever was, ever would be.

“Thomas, I have it on good authority that you have a ten-pound bag of pancake mix in your cupboard. Three pancakes or bust.” Thomas’ head snapped up with enough speed to give him whiplash, but in just enough time to see a fleeting smirk become cannibalized by James’ trademark deadpan.

He couldn’t have wiped the grin from his face if his life depended on it. A wildly successful near miss for Major Thom! Somewhere—deep in his heart, probably—Thomas knew he owed it to James to come clean. Lay all his cards on the table, and if James could stand to look at him after the dust settled, allow him to take the reins and lead Thomas down the straight and narrow. It would a battle for the ages. For once and for all, they would find out if you could take the trap out of the kid.

“Not today, Satan,” Thomas muttered, and his feet were already moving. He whipped open the cabinet below the sink to display the industrial zip lock bag in question, its friendly _Just Add Water!_ label glimmering under fluorescent lighting, “You know what? You’re damned right I have a ten-pound bag of pancake mix! It was even—”

“On sale? For four dollars?” James affected a look of shock, clutching at his chest, “Why, Thomas, that’s less than—”

“Less than fifty cent per pound, Jem, don’t you dare make light of this!” Thomas dropped it on the table with a satisfying thump, grumbling to himself as he hunted for a mixing bowl, tucking a wooden spoon between his teeth to free up his hands, “Make m’nimum m’fuckin’ wage. S’pos’ t’be un’mpr’ssed by a steal li’ tha’? Ge’ real.”

He heard James grunt behind him as he stood, moving to grab the bowl from Thomas’ hands and the spoon from his mouth. He pulled a face as he wiped the saliva off on the pant leg of his slacks, earning a smug sneer from Thomas, before pouring a bit out of the formidable bag, “You only make minimum wage by choice, Thom. I know you went to college back home, and I’d be willing to bet that some of those credits would transfer over. You’re more than smart enough, so don’t even try that as an excuse. One more year for an associate degree, and you could kiss fast food goodbye forever.”

Only James Madison could make mixing pancake batter come off as passive aggressive, and Thomas no longer had anything to do with his hands. He scuffed his bare feet against the cheap tile for a moment before thinking better of it as his foot hit a suspiciously sticky patch. He needed to mop soon.

“James.” The encrypted message was ‘cut the shit,’ and Thomas hoped that it came across loud and clear.

James looked up, his face deceptively blank, “Thom.” The encrypted message was ‘no,’ and Thomas didn’t have a right to be Not Angry, Just Disappointed, but damn it all if he wasn’t, anyway. James never could stand to let a sleeping dog lie.

Thomas shuffled as gingerly as he could beside James to take the bowl, which was probably over-mixed at this point—James had no respect for the art of pancake-making—and began to heat a skillet over his dingy little oven.

James’ friendship was the only lifeline he had at this point, and he knew it. It was his own personal portal to a universe where people like him could have a little slice of the American Dream with pancake batter on sale and no blood on his hands, at least for a little bit. It was tenuous, at best: built on half-truths and blind faith and suppressed memories. 

Fragile.

And James wanted him to take his boulder of baggage and drop it on top of the both of them.

Better to keep it vague and let him down easy. Thomas pushed a loose cornrow back over his shoulder before he began to pour batter into the skillet, “James, look, I love you. I’d do anything for you. Always been that way, and you,” Thomas tried hard not to let his voice break, “Jesus, I know what you’d do for me. Things I did back home? They’re ugly, Jem, but I’d do ‘em twice over if you asked me to. And a whole lot’a that is ‘cause I know you’d never ask, y’know? Half the shit I wouldn’t blink twice at would make you lose your lunch, big guy, and I love you for it.” 

Thomas cleared his throat as he flipped a pancake, blinking hard against burning eyes, “But I don’t think you get it, not really. I just don’t think you could get it if you wanted to, which, hey, that’s great! Means you ain’t all fucked up. You’re great and you—you’re really doin’ well for yourself up here in New York, huh? Made it out alive, like an honest-to-God rags to riches fairytale. You were always too good for li’l ass-backwards Virginia, Jemmy, and,” he had to force the words, but maybe James needed to hear them, “And look, maybe once I was, too. Maybe—it was maybe when we graduated high school, huh? A full lifetime ago, when you got that scholarship to Princeton, and we promised we’d keep in touch. Said—we said we’d get our degrees and be roommates, livin’ large like some rich Yankee bachelors up here, didn’t we?” Thomas’ throat burned. He could smell the fire, could hear the screaming, and there must have been smoke in his eyes making them blur. He pushed on, because he had to, “But, James, I ain’t—I can’t—I’m just not. M’not that kid anymore, and I—"

And then he was choking on words, on blood in his mouth, on smoke and tears and ashes thick like snowfall in his eyes that he couldn’t blink away.

A hand on his shoulder—cool like ice water, and was that his mama calling for him?—herded him away from the oven. He moved as if he was in a dream, watching the on-goings of his life from an outside perspective.

“Thomas,” James was close enough that Thomas could feel the low rumble of his voice, smooth and even against his side, and he leaned into it. It helped to clear his thoughts, if only a little, though not quite banishing the heady scent of fire from his mind. Even after he was successfully shepherded, the hand remained a steady presence grounding him as he swam against the current of memories long passed. “You’re burning the pancake.”

The words washed over him like a bucket of cold water, and Thomas could breathe again. 

Smoke really was in the air, as opposed to his mind alone. He figured that was relieving and alarming in equal parts as his brain finally caught up with the proceedings. Glancing into the skillet over James’ shoulder, and yes, he could see the charred remnants of his pancake glower up at him accusingly. He swiped a hand over his eyes, still stinging from their exposure to his accidental flambé, and it came back wet but not ashen. 

Case closed. Sharing deep trauma was, indeed, for the birds. “I was searing it, Jem.” Thomas was embarrassed to hear his voice crack and made a show of clearing his throat, “But, hey, if you can’t appreciate a little culture then I guess that one’s all mine.”

Thomas felt a small squeeze on his shoulder, realizing belatedly that James had never moved his hand. In fact, he was all but using his shorter friend as a crutch for all that he was supporting him. No use fighting it now he supposed, burying his head in James’ close-cropped curls with a groan.

“Let’s start this over,” James proposed, shifting below him to lean against the countertop.

Thomas let out a long-suffering sigh, briefly wondering how much willpower a person would need to spontaneously combust, before hopefully suggesting, “The pancakes?”

A gentle chuckle from below him, and at least his efforts weren’t entirely worthless, “No, not the pancakes. Look, I knew you wouldn’t want to go back to college, Thom. I was only—” James grunted before shifting again, sounding sheepish as he continued, “I was hoping to inspire a quid pro quo, of sorts. You aren’t comfortable with pursuing higher education—and I understand that, honestly. I should never have suggested that the public service industry was lesser to any other form of employment, for that matter, but that’s not what I’m trying to—"

He paused to take a deep breath as his words became frenzied, enunciating carefully when he pressed forward, “I know I shouldn’t have pushed you like that, and I apologize. But the fact remains that I worry about you, Thom, and I want to help if you’re willing to listen.”

Thomas felt caught under a spotlight, still reeling from the fact that somehow James thought he owed him any kind of apology after his little breakfast-making breakdown. He shook himself before speaking softly, wary of disturbing whatever delicate peace James was trying to construct, “James, you know I can’t move in with you. You’ve done too much for me already, and I can’t risk putting you in danger. If anything happened to you because of me, I—’

“—And I’m not asking you for that, Thom, please. I’m only asking that you keep an open mind to what I’m about to suggest.”

This caught his attention. Thomas took his time righting himself, peering down at James suspiciously before fishing two mugs out of his cabinet. If it wasn’t an invitation to move, then it was something new. New things were risky at best, in his experience, and deadly at worst.

Full disclosure, Thomas knew he’d do anything in his power to ease James’ mind. Hell, if he ever pushed the issue, Thomas probably would find himself packing his things and on his merry way to joining the Madison Household—White Picket Fence Included! The entire discussion was moot. If it was important enough for James to stage a mini-intervention, he already considered it done. 

He still took his time pouring coffee for the two of them, though, because it was more fun to watch James squirm for a minute or two. He took a long sip, savoring the bitter scald that trailed down his throat, “A’ight. Hit me with this big proposal, Jem.”

“Come work with me.” James must have seen Thomas’ life flash before his eyes in that moment, because he hastily followed up, “I mean, it’s nothing major! Next month Mr. Washington, my boss, is going to be conducting open interviews for a personal secretary. You don’t need any major qualifications, and I know that it’s nothing you couldn’t handle, Thomas. You’re a charmer! I’ve already told him that you might even be able to help advise him, maybe? I mean, you’ve got great business sense—don’t look at me like that, Thomas, I know you used to turn a tidy profit back in Virginia—and there might even be room for upward mobility within the company if you stick around.” He was nearly out of breath by the time he finished, face reddening from the exertion, and Thomas was reminded of James’ frailty in painful clarity.

The sight was enough to tug at Thomas’ heartstrings before the gravity of the situation settled like a rockslide around him. There were so many reasons why that was the worst idea Thomas had ever heard. Take James—with his Real-Life Success Story—and Thomas—with his Fresh Out The Trash Couture—and you’d wonder why they were friends at all.

But co-workers? That was fanatical talk. The product of an unsound mind. Thomas couldn’t let that stand.

Hell, he was reminded of his own frailty as he struggled to keep himself from hyperventilating in his reply, “Jemmy. Jem-Jam. The gem of my life, James Madison, you remember you work at, like, an office? Honest to God, a real office? The whole shebang! What, with the monkey suit, ‘how’s the wife and kids,’ nine-to-five type office work?” 

And no, sir, Thomas hadn’t planned to be screaming at his only friend in the world at two in the afternoon on a Saturday. He only wanted pancakes, and yet he couldn’t stop his voice from rising of its own accord, “The fuck do y’all even sell in your generic-ass office, huh, James? I sure couldn’t fuckin’ tell you. You know why? ‘Cause I ain’t never been near any motherfucking business offices in all New York! You up in some Wall Street-ass shit! Does that look like my district, James? No, really, I’m dying to know.” 

A deep breath, and Thomas had every intention to calm down, but his next words came out in a deadly hiss, “And ‘business sense’? Huh? C’mon, James, give me the dirty details. Did you really tell your Yankee-ass, white-collar-ass-lookin’-motherfucker of a boss that you had your own little kingpin at home? What, you mention I was looking for a new enterprise? ‘Oh, sir, he’s just a little bit tired of slinging coke, maybe he could branch out into stocks?’” Thomas’ falsetto was mocking and harsh, biting like shattered glass. It grated against his ears, catching at his attention.

He sounded like everything he hated about himself. 

It a realization somber enough to drag him from his tirade, deflating like the Hindenburg. It was enough for him to take a hard look at James, who seemed to have checked out entirely to seek higher guidance from his coffee mug. Who had given and given, just to have it thrown back in his face every time.

Aw, fuck. 

“Aw, fuck,” Thomas scrubbed at his face, “Jemmy, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Like, at all. That’s literally the nicest thing anyone has ever offered me, ever.” He took an anxious sip out of his cup, stalling for time, “Knowing you, you’ve really been pulling strings for me on the home front, huh? And I just—I’m literally the biggest asshole, God, I’m so sorry. And, I mean, I think I just made a pretty strong case as to why I don’t deserve any of this from you—” James’ eyes burned as they rested on him, unblinking, so he hastily added, “—but! Listen, if the offer is still on the table, I’ll give it all I’ve got. I promise, whatever it takes, Jem. I’ll save up for a suit, polish up my etiquette, even find out whatever the hell it is y’all sell.”

James cracked a small smile at that, which Thomas considered to be a wild success, “We’re a publishing company, Thomas.”

Okay, but he really couldn’t help himself, “Publishing? In this economy? Jem, you know print is the fastest dying—ouch, okay, you really don’t need to hit me—” Thomas ducked away from another playful blow, an elbow snagging on his coffee cup at an angle precise enough to send lukewarm coffee flying into his face. Any tension left between them dissolved as James broke out into a snorting chuckle, and for the first time in a while, Thomas felt like things might work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Li'l bit of exposition and bromance for y'all, you know how it do.
> 
> This chapter was heavily influenced by story 2, by clipping. so i 100% stole both the title for the story and chapter from the song. gotta do whatchu gotta do.
> 
> expect chapter updates on Saturday!! 
> 
> xoxo, dakohtah


	2. the dog's let out to walk and the gods all talk gibberish

Thomas knew, with a considering glance at himself in the mirror, things would not work out. It took an icy splash of water across his face and a directionless prayer before he gathered the courage to look back up. 

Thomas couldn’t recognize his reflection. The thought was less comforting than he’d hoped it would be.

The dead-eyed stranger watched him apprehensively under the blinding light of a public restroom, unmoved when he regathered his loose curls into a thick pouf at the crown of his head. He saw, rather than felt, himself wince as the tailored fit of his suit limited his range of motion.

God, that man in the mirror looked filthy. 

Wasn’t a suit on Earth that could cover it up, either. One look, and Thomas could be read as easily as a book. Dirty litanies had been imprinted in the bags under his eyes, in the broken nose that never quite healed up the way it should have, in the teeth—loose—holding on by the root, and in the hard lines pressed between his eyebrows. Burn scars and callouses on fisted hands hanging limp below cufflinks, and Thomas chuckled mirthlessly as he imagined them filing paperwork. 

No, it would only take one look, and then he wouldn’t be fooling anybody. He was a man hardened by hand, meticulously crafted and designed to be interpreted. Like a walking ‘Beware of Dog’ sign on the chain-link fence left wide open. 

It wasn’t too late to back out, either. Thomas hadn’t been called back yet, hadn’t committed to anything. Hell, he’d gotten there early, but he still hadn’t been the first to be seated by the young receptionist with kind eyes. He’d be doing the whole company a favor, really. It wasn’t like he stood a chance to get hired. In the meager fifteen minutes he’d sat among his compatriots, feeling about as out of place as he must have looked, the office anteroom had seen the influx of nearly a dozen more eager would-be secretaries. At least James couldn’t accuse him of leaving them short-staffed.

There were plenty of other good folk who could fill the position. Clean folk, more deserving of the sweet security that this vanilla gig offered. Even if he stayed, it would be a waste of everyone’s time. Thomas could just walk out, toke up, go to work at four and forget about whatever sad lapse in judgment led him to this pinnacle on Mistake Mountain.

He probably would’ve, too, if James hadn’t personally escorted him directly to the door of Revolutionary Publishing, Incorporated earlier in the morning. If he hadn’t clasped Thomas’ arm with a soft, secret smile before leaving for his cubicle. If James wouldn’t know, beyond any shadow of doubt, that he’d given up on himself again. And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? He could only sweet-talk his way out of so many sticky situations.

Sweet James, what, with his chronic bronchitis and misguided notions about human goodness. No matter how forgiving his friend had proven himself to be, he wouldn’t keep accepting failure with open arms. And that was an inevitable that Thomas was desperate to delay.

He huffed out a sigh as he washed his hands for the third time, trying fruitlessly to gather his thoughts. For whatever reason, James had yet again set his expectations down on Thomas’ shoulders. Only this time, Thomas had promised he’d try his best to make him proud. 

He’d made a promise. He may as well have signed a treaty. He would make James proud. 

And hey, when it crashed and burned? Thomas could still walk out, toke up, and go to work at four. No heavy hits but those his pride would receive, and he ought to be accustomed to those by now.

He had finally decided to dry his hands by the time he was startled out of his reverie, the door of the bathroom slamming open with the force of a gunshot. How silly, but Thomas could’ve almost believed it was one. He could’ve sworn he smelled gunpowder on the air. He could taste the blood in his mouth—had he bitten his tongue?—and adrenaline thrummed though his veins like a drug dearly missed. Careful not to move, not to breathe, his thoughts were blessedly silent. His feet were squared but his body was taut as a bowstring, discreetly tilting his head to scan for possible exits. There were none. Wasn’t that just about a bitch? A subtle pat found no gun at his hip, and he couldn’t imagine why he wasn’t packing any heat. Thomas gritted his teeth. No way out but onward, and his fists were clenching, because he’d be damned if he went down without a fight, and—

“Hey, man, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a man’s voice broke through his mind’s haze, sharp as a slap. The breath Thomas was holding released itself without permission, and he focused on easing his erratic heartbeat as the stranger continued, musingly, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, actually. So, let me guess: you’re nervous about the big interview, huh?” There was a low snort, “Oh, that’s adorable. Try not to look so antsy in front of Washington, okay? He doesn’t suffer sycophants with grace.”

And, okay. Yeah, maybe he was still a little tense from the intrusion. A little embarrassed that he’d convinced himself a slamming door was equivocal to a shoot-out. Maybe a little too much adrenaline met his sensitive ego halfway. Thomas couldn’t imagine any other reason he’d spin on his heel over a petty jab, all but growling as he sized up the man over the urinal.

Oh, he’d show this guy ‘adorable,’ alright.

He knew better than to underestimate an opponent. The man was light skinned, probably Latino, and he carried himself like he knew how to scrap. Hungry eyes, and Thomas would be willing to bet he wasn’t a stranger to the streets. Probably a little rusty, used to playing nice in the white-collar scene, but that would be fine.

Thomas never got rusty.

Barely bigger than James, some lean muscle packed onto his lithe frame—Thomas could overpower him easily enough, if only for the height differential. Long hair in a messy, brown ponytail—rookie mistake in a fistfight, but it would make a decent handle if he wanted to use his skull as a battering ram. Flashy green suit—form fitting, but with enough superfluous fabric that Thomas would have plenty of leeway if he had to drag him back by it. The little shit was clearly at ease, thought he was on home turf, and—

He was on home turf. This prick was at ease because he had a job at Revolutionary Publishing, Incorporated. The office James had walked Thomas to, had trusted him not to make trouble in.

Because Thomas was there for an interview.

He glanced across the room at the mirror, and for the first time all day, the eyes that met is were familiar. Feral and glinting like steel, any soft lethargy in his reflection had morphed into hard edges and raised hackles. Every ugly chunk of himself that Thomas had buried—carefully covered until they were whispers on the wind—now resurfaced and blinking like a neon sign. His hands were too hot, nearly burning, but that was stupid because the scar tissue meant that they were supposed to be numb. 

Thomas had a sneaking suspicion that there was some funky psychological bullshit afoot, but he’d be damned if he knew how to stop it.

And it was fucking demeaning, to boot. He’d risen to the bait too easy. It had been too simple for him to lose the plot entirely. Like a predator in captivity who’d gotten a whiff of fresh blood. Instinctual. Like this was all he ever was, all he’d ever be.

Ground Control to Major Thom: one slip was bad enough, but two in one day? Shit was getting out of hand. 

Thomas closed his eyes. Rubbed his temples. Counted to ten. Counted down from ten. Tried, with little success, to ride out the tension in his shoulders and forcibly release his balled fists. He could Lion King himself out of this mess, he was sure of it. _‘Remember who you are, Thomas,’_ except Mufasa had James’ voice and it worked better than he thought it would. Since when was he ready to kill a man over a few harmless digs?

Shit, since when wasn’t he? Virginia Thomas wouldn’t have thought twice about it—but this was New York, New Man, Thomas. Aggravated assault was a big no-no for New York Thomas.

Reinvention of the self, he decided, was damned confusing. 

Thomas opened his eyes at the sound of a quick zip, and watched the feisty little guy make his way to the sink. Now that his boiling blood had gentled to a simmer, he couldn’t bring himself to feel much of anything about the whole event. Another proverbial kick to the balls, but what was new? If nothing else, it was refreshing to see that he wasn’t the only street-rat floating around uptown. 

By this point, he wasn’t sure how long he’d spent gawking by the hand-dryer. He’d already missed his interview for all he knew, and he tried hard to convince himself that would be a bad thing. He was certain it was long enough to make himself look like a voyeur, a simpleton, or an exciting combination of the two.

On that note, Thomas supposed he may as well make his way back into the lobby. Just when he’d willed his feet to move, they stuttered to a halt as a glinting copper eyes snapped up to meet his, “You plan on taking a picture? I hear they last longer.”

And, okay. Alright. So maybe Thomas had communed with Mufasa-James and decided not to bodily injure the guy. 

That was fine. 

Didn’t mean he had to take any shit lying down.

Thomas shifted languidly against the wall, biting out a grin full of teeth and dangerous promises, “Y’don’t say? N’aw, I’m only tryin’ to scope out company standards.” He gave the brunette a long once-over, nice and slow, before meeting his gaze, “Let me guess: new money? Or were you aimin’ for fake royalty?”

Watching the words sink in on the man was a lot like watching the temperature rise on an old-fashioned thermometer. A deep scarlet began to flush above the silver-lined collar of his—tacky as hell, for the record—suit, making a leisurely incline until it dusted the tips of his ears. It was morbidly fascinating to watch a vein swell and pulse on his forehead, rhythmic, even as Thomas heard his voice sharpen like a switchblade, “Excuse me?”

Thomas affected a sympathetic hiss on his exhale, the drawl of his voice icy, “Oh, too close to home? Bless your little heart.” He shrugged off the wall, making his way toward the door, “I appreciate the hustle, my dude, but you ain’t rid of that ‘stray dog, beggin’ for scraps’ look just yet.” He chanced one last glance over his shoulder, his hand holding the door slightly ajar. The pulsing vein was no longer rhythmic, and he cut the smaller man off with a wink when he tried to open his mouth, “Hey, might be that’s part of the charm, right? You know us sycophants.”

For all his bravado, Thomas was sure to guide the door shut on his way out, gentle as a lover. No more false alarms on his watch, thank you very much.

The air-conditioned lobby did wonders for Thomas’ blood pressure, he was sure of it. He could breathe easier, anyway. Open space where the restroom had been enclosed, and any eyes that met his were blessedly vacant. No suspicious stares. No anxious recognitions. Certainly no scrappy man-children begging to lose a couple teeth.

It was a sobering realization. To these strangers, Thomas was just another guy hoping to land a job.

And if that wasn’t a damned novelty. He found an unoccupied seat where, suddenly, the other potential applicants seemed infinitely less intimidating.

Hell, Thomas almost felt cocky as he watched the guy thunder out of the bathroom with murder in his eyes. Now, Thomas was a changed man. Didn’t get his rocks off on stirring up trouble. But he still got a cold, vindictive dose of satisfaction when he fixed Mr. Napoleon Complex with his best innocent gaze before pointedly peering around at the room full of by-standers. All but daring the little fuck to make a scene at work. 

His face was an unbecoming shade of puce by this point. Even as the shorter man snarled, storming towards the cubicles, Thomas was pretty sure Mufasa-James would be proud of how he handled the situation. Sure, the receptionist’s soft eyes had narrowed at the interaction, but the damage seemed minimal. Wasn’t like you could begrudge a guy a little bathroom trash talk.

He was New York, New Man, Thomas. He didn’t start fistfights at job interviews. Damn, he wished it wouldn’t be weird to pat himself on the back, because he definitely deserved it.

“Thomas Jefferson?”

Uncanny timing, too. Thomas stood quickly, shooting up a brief thanks to the Mufasa-James in the sky, who clearly wanted him to ride this unexpected wave of confidence as far as it could carry him.

He could almost hear him, a gentle reminder in the back of his mind, _‘You’ll need to quit smoking dope before the interview, Thomas, Revolutionary Publishing does administer drug tests.’_

Except wait, no, that one was a memory of the real James when he’d told him about the job opening. Thomas had hesitantly acquiesced, under the condition that James understood certain slang had changed since the Reagan Administration and ‘smoking dope’ didn’t refer to marijuana anymore, because _‘Jesus, Jem, you’re makin’ me sound like some kind’a junkie—did someone forget to tell you it’s the twenty-first century—'_

 _‘You can do this, Thom,’_ and there we go, that was more like Mufasa-James. If Thomas wanted something done right, he had to do it his own damned self.

“Right through there.” The freckled receptionist gave a stilted nod to the door leading to the inner offices as Thomas reached him, his mouth twisting into a wary pucker around the words, “Mr. Washington will be the first door to your right.”

“Thanks,” and if he seemed unmoved by the gracious smile Thomas shot his way, well, he supposed he couldn’t win them all.

Making his way through the weighted door, Thomas could see the office in question no more than five feet away. Even through the narrow pathway, the bronzed plaque reading ‘George Washington’ in an especially tasteful font was painfully visible. No awkward placement. No opportunity to stall.

Maybe some anxious applicants would be grateful, at least. It was impossible to miss. Thomas’ writhing stomach gauged this observation to be an unfavorable one.

A steadying breath, and he was moving again. Not too fast, but not too slow. Shoulders squared without appearing rigid. While Thomas hadn’t had any technical experience with professional employers, he’d dealt with enough small-time bigwigs to know he was entirely out of his depth. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Thomas thrived when the stakes were high. If he wanted to escape this shitshow with a scrap of dignity left, he’d have to play fast and loose with his cards close to his chest. 

He would make James proud. Thomas gave the office door three clean knocks.

And yeah, before he’d crossed the proverbial Rubicon, Thomas wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had no idea what to expect from this Washington guy. Sure, he knew what he was _expecting,_ but he was no stranger to life throwing him for a loop at every turn just to prove that it could.

So to say, as he entered, Thomas wasn’t surprised that the man behind the desk wasn’t some squat, balding white guy in his sixties. In his defense, what else could he figure a publisher would look like? Thomas may have had a little preconceived mental image going on, but he wasn’t big on typecasting. It took all kinds, and all that.

But did the guy have to be such a beefcake? Damn.

The office was sizable, adorned with framed accolades and tasteful family photographs, and yet it seemed comically disproportionate considering the stature of the man behind the desk. For fuck’s sake, he could be smuggling softballs in his suit jacket for the size of his biceps alone. There was power in the way he held himself, exuding command without coming off as oppressive. He hadn’t been entirely off the mark in assuming his would-be boss would be balding, Thomas allowed, but it seemed to be a stylistic choice as opposed to the result of genetic misfortune.

Washington’s thick brows were furrowed as Thomas entered, thumbing his way through a sheaf of paperwork with an intensity that was entirely out of place in an office setting. This man looked like the real deal, and Thomas couldn’t help but wonder how he’d ended up running a publishing company, of all things. He hadn’t been at it long enough to let the profession shape him, anyway. Didn’t seem slimy enough. A look that severe wasn’t the brand of a businessman.

Thomas shook himself. It was a mystery for someone else to uncover. He sure as hell wasn’t there to investigate some beefy dude’s tragic backstory.

He needed to focus. Needed to formulate a plan of attack.

Playing at simple and southern would suit him well here, he’d wager. Look a little nervous, maybe play into this guy’s ego. Nothing like an accent and some overblown humility to make a man more endearing. 

To decent folk, anyway. This kind of shit would get him eaten alive back home.

“Mr. Washington?” he began, all phony hesitance and apologetic smiles as the man startled slightly, hastening to rise as Thomas extended his hand. “Thomas Jefferson. I’m here for the interview, sir, and I must say it’s a pleasure. James speaks highly of you.” A bold-faced lie, although Thomas assumed it was accurate to some capacity. It wasn’t as if he’d ever asked.

The calloused hand that clasped his was warm, but not unpleasantly so, and Washington’s eyes seemed to gentle as they took him in. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Jefferson. I apologize for my distraction. It seems that these interviews are a bit more trying than I had anticipated. Please, make yourself comfortable,” he insisted, gesturing expansively at the plush chairs facing his desk. Thomas settled in as Washington straightened the files he had fiddled with, “Your reputation precedes you, as well. It seems Mr. Madison is warmer in his friendships than his stoicism would have one believe.” His chuckle was minute, barely there, but unguarded. A good start.

Score one, Thomas. 

And while honesty wasn’t a virtue he had expected to bring to the table, he couldn’t help but offer a wry smile, “You don’t know the half of it, sir. There’s no one I’d rather have in my corner.”

“I’m of a similar mind. Revolutionary Publishing is surely better for his involvement,” Washington nodded emphatically. “He assures me that you would be a similar benefit to our company, for that matter. I don’t suppose you’d mind if we began?”

If any paltry nervousness rose in Thomas’ chest at the suggestion, he was sure it didn’t show on his face. He was pretty good at poker. So he wasn’t too worried, even as the lie slipped from his lips alongside a smile, “Of course not, sir. I’m an open book.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so you get the update a day early bc hell yeah
> 
> li'l bit of alex, doin' his li'l trash talk--the teeeeensiest cameo of john too bc i think he's the receptionist type honestly
> 
> title stolen from bout.that by clipping. i was feelin it for this chapter. also gods' plan, by drake bc that shit is catchy as all get out lets be real
> 
> thanks for reading! imma try to get the next one in by next saturday!
> 
> xoxo, dakohtah


	3. don't knock it, you've been here before

The interview had been going so well, too. Every irrational fear Thomas had held clutched to his chest was systematically dismantled by the sheer civility of the event.

Standard questions. Standard answers. An easy rapport between Washington and himself. An astonishing lack of incriminating evidence that Thomas was a hardened criminal. And no matter now many times Thomas surreptitiously glanced at the sun-kissed window to his left, no feds had busted it out to enact his dramatic apprehension.

Astounding.

Even as the interview began to wind down, the two devolved into friendly conversation—a wildly unexpected turn of events! Turned out ol’ Washington was Virginian, born and raised, and was willing to extend Thomas the all-encompassing olive branch of southern comradery. 

To his credit, Washington was oddly endearing in his own little stone-faced way. Reminded him of James, if James had been an old buff guy with a mysterious past.

It was entirely too good to last.

So, nah, Thomas wasn’t surprised when the other shoe dropped. How it dropped, however, had him spluttering in his seat as he desperately tried to reassemble whatever control he’d had over the situation.

“Beg pardon?”

Washington, damn him, had the audacity to look sympathetic as he reiterated, “Mr. Madison has informed me that you likely suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Of course, it holds no bearing on your ability to work here, should that be the case. Though I would, in a personal capacity, like to know if you’ve sought a professional consultation?”

“Look, I—uh, I’m not—" Thomas ran a hand over his face as he worked his jaw, struggling to arrange his thoughts. He had been ready for just about every curveball other than this one. 

What fresh hell even was this? No fucking way he had PTSD.

And, the worst of it all, he’d let his guard down enough to care that Washington had the wrong idea.

Now, Thomas had never had an honest-to-God father figure—not even an over-involved little league coach—and in his frazzled state, it felt imperative that he not scare off this one. He was disoriented enough to choke on words he hadn’t meant to say, “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about. Whatever James told you, it’s, uh—it’s news to me. I’m sure there was some kind’a misunderstanding. I mean, sure, I grew up rough, sir, but—uh, it’s just the nightmares, sometimes. Yeah, I get a little jumpy, maybe, but I swear it don’t cause any trouble. I swear, um—look, I, uh, I ain’t—I haven’t served in the military, or nothin’, so I don’t—"

Washington raised a hand, successfully quelling the embarrassing ramble Thomas had somehow lost control over, “Son, there are wars beyond those that happen overseas. Goodness knows that I, of all people, am in no position to judge you for things that you have seen. It isn’t my place to pry if you’re uncomfortable.”

And hell, maybe Thomas was caught up in the moment, but it wasn’t even too weird when Washington crossed the awkward little desk to put a hand on his shoulder. The meaningful eye contact should have had him running for the hills, and yet, “I only hoped to assure you there was no shame in seeking help, when necessary. I apologize to have overstepped.”

Boy, Washington had an honest-to-God mix-up on his hands. Probably pictured Thomas looking down the barrel of street crime instead of pulling the trigger. 

The man was a hell of an orator, though.

Nope. Thomas’ eyes weren’t misting over, not even a little.

He’d lost the plot here, somehow, he was sure of it. Washington was a sweet guy, sure, but a little misplaced empathy didn’t make Thomas some PTSD poster child. He couldn’t be. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have a shot at this gig if he didn’t keep his running mouth on a tighter leash. He had to get control over the situation, somehow.

Just as Thomas began—distantly—contemplating whether punching Washington right in his fatherly fucking face would help reassert dominance, the click of a door opening nearly left him jumping out of his skin, “Hey, G-Wash, you still need the paperwork for—”

Thomas recognized the voice before he even looked over. Felt relief, of all things, as the sound grated his composure back into place. Knew the intervention would probably do more harm than good but couldn’t bring himself to resent it.

Either way, he was feeling more like himself already, and was only a little disheartened to see Washington smile warmly at the man as he handed off the documents, “Yes, thank you. Mr. Jefferson, I’d like to introduce you to—”

“We’ve met,” and Christ, it was willpower alone that kept Thomas from snorting as his would-be boss was cut off in acidic tones. Theatric little fucker that he was, Mr. Napoleon Complex crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe, “You two look pretty chummy. Guy’s kind of a country bumpkin, huh? You breaking it to him that literacy is a prerequisite for the job? Let him down easy, sir.”

“Hamilton, for God’s sake, not now.” The shut-down was as harsh as it was immediate, and yikes. If Thomas wasn’t firing all cylinders at this point, a glance at Washington’s face was all the pick-me-up he needed.

The man’s otherwise welcoming demeanor had hardened instantaneously, equal parts anger and exasperation saturating his voice, “I truly apologize, Mr. Jefferson, that was entirely uncalled for.” 

This time it was Thomas’ turn to raise a hand, discouraging further explanation. He tried not to look smug, and it might’ve even worked. Oh, how the turntables.

With a little effort, he kept his face open. Exuding good-humor, and with his equanimity back it was almost too fucking easy, “No need, Mr. Washington. Lord knows it isn’t the worst thing anyone has ever said to me,”—and damn, did Thomas deserve a Grammy for the self-depreciating chuckle he managed, because it was a work of fucking art—"and I probably deserve a little ribbing. Mr.—Handyson, was it?—and I had a bit of a run-in before my interview. If anything, I owe him an apology, sir. He gave me a bit of a scare, and I’ll admit that I don’t wear apprehension with grace on my best days.”

Thomas gave himself another point on the scoreboard as the larger man’s shoulders fell, relief palpable in his voice, “It’s certainly no trouble—"

“With all due respect, sir, he’s absolutely full of shit. Also, it’s Hamilton. Not—whatever the fuck he just said.”

Maybe it was in poor taste to laugh, but the vicious one that clawed out of Thomas’ throat had come unbidden. He tried half-heartedly to pass it off as a cough, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Hasstiltson, but this is hardly an appropriate debate to settle at the workplace. It would, of course, be my pleasure to finish this discussion privately?” He aimed for a smile, but probably ended up baring his teeth, “Name a time and place, and I got you.”

Not the most subtle move on Thomas’ part, maybe, but his suit was too tight and his palms were starting to burn. His burst of composure had proven itself to be short-lived, and in its wake, Thomas found that he was just fucking tired. The game had worn thin, and he was a realist at heart.

Still, he liked Washington. Liked him enough that he wasn’t about to start throwing punches right under his nose, anyway. Thought he was a good man, probably had good intentions.

Issue being that Thomas wasn’t, and he didn’t. He’d done his part. He’d come to James’ cute little business. Hemmed and hawed like he belonged there. Pretended he didn’t have a whole block’s worth of closeted skeletons waiting for him back home.

He’d done his part well enough that he’d almost bought his own bullshit. Almost. The reappearance of The Restroom Menace was the perfect reminder that he had been weighed, measured, and found fucking wanting from the second he set foot in the building. You could only put so much lipstick on a pig, and all that.

He’d let Washington’s rose-colored glasses blind him to reality. He nearly fell for it, too—but no. Thomas never forgot, never got rusty. Couldn’t afford to. He didn’t stand a chance at playing nice in a nine-to-five. No way he’d get the job, and no way he’d work for some deluded would-be daddy who thought he was a basket case, anyway. He wasn’t a charity case. Couldn’t pretend to be. 

So. Thomas figured he may as well take the next best offer on the table and go a few rounds in a dingy parking lot. He had an itch that some verbal sparring just couldn’t scratch. 

Besides, the little guy could talk big. Thomas was dying to find out if he could back it up.

Although, full disclosure, Thomas realized pretty quickly that he’d backed the wrong horse. It really wasn’t looking good on the fight front, since Hamilton was still refusing to even look at him.

The fucking gremlin rounded on Washington instead, bypassing too-close-for-comfort until he was probably making eye contact with the older man’s chin. It couldn’t have been good for his neck, tilting it back like that. 

But, whatever. Hamilton sure didn’t seem bothered by the angle as he whisper-hissed at his boss, “He just threatened me!” Thomas snorted, but had the good grace not to point out that he could still hear him, “You heard that, right? That was a _proposition_ , and you’re just letting him lounge in that chair—all high and fucking mighty—like he owns the place, and—”

“Hamilton, calm down, this is absolutely—”

“—that’s not even what his voice sounds like! His accent is, like, twenty times worse than that! And he’s messing up my name on purpose! He’s trying to fuck with me, right in front of you, and you’re not even—”

“—outrageous behavior! You solve nothing by—”

“—doing anything about it! He should be out on his ass by now! What, do you feel bad for him? You can’t just buy into every sob story—"

“Alexander, enough. You will learn to manage your behavior, or you will leave my office immediately. Do you understand?” Washington’s voice was low and imposing, and Thomas was almost relieved that he’d finally put his foot down. Glancing between the two of them like some sort of bastardized tennis match had been putting a crick in his neck.

The tense silence gave Thomas’ mind time to wander, and on further reflection, he could imagine Washington as a drug lord before all this. Maybe a general. Or a really intense little league coach, Thomas supposed. Definitely not a foot soldier, though—not the type to answer to anybody—whatever it was he’d been into. 

Regardless, a man wasn’t born with that kind of power in his voice, didn’t pop out of the womb exuding command, and suddenly Thomas was one step closer to unlocking Washington’s tragic backstory without doing any of the legwork.

That was fine by him. At least Thomas could get something out of this whole fiasco, since it didn’t look like he’d be getting into a job or a fistfight, at this rate. 

By the time he looked back, Hamilton had stepped back both physically and emotionally from the reprimand. He seemed to be studying the broad window with great interest, recrossing his arms as an errant loafer scuffed waxed floors. “I only think that he’s being disingenuous, sir. I wouldn’t want you to hire him under false pretenses,” he grumbled haltingly.

“And what false pretenses would those be, Mr. Hamilton?” Washington’s voice was the kind of deadly Thomas didn’t want any part of, the kind of deadly that got people shot back home if they didn’t tread real fucking careful, “To me, he looks like a gentleman applying to work as my personal secretary, defending himself against an unprecedented verbal assault. We are no longer at war, young man. There are no state secrets to be found in my desk. You would do well to remember that we are working together as civilians, as I expect you to behave accordingly.”

Whatever Hamilton mumbled back at Washington was muffled by Thomas’ flooding realization that he had hit the Tragic Backstory Jackpot. It was a two-for-one, to boot!

He may not have served personally, but Thomas had sold to enough veteran-turned-junkies to be hip with martial jargon. An old-fashioned case of ex-military, by the look of it, in regard to both Washington and Hamilton. Top dog Washing Machine, if Thomas had to guess, with pint-sized Hammy as a close underling. 

Too close? Lovers, maybe? 

No, that’s blind speculation—Thomas, focus. There was only one plot hole left, and Thomas was all but burning to find out how, exactly, the two had eloped to create a publishing company.

Was it just the two of them? Probably not, or it would be co-owned—which it definitely wasn’t, or the Ham Sandwich would have just booted Thomas of his own volition. No, there was a power imbalance between big Wash and little Ham, for sure. Were there more veterans afoot, then? Had Thomas somehow infiltrated the stronghold of retried troops with a passion for publishing? And, if so—

“—mpletely uncalled for, but I digress. I can only hope that you will not let this altercation color your interpretation of Revolutionary Publishing as a company.” When Thomas checked back in, Washington was watching him expectantly. The gleam in his eye was meaningful enough to give Thomas the heebie-jeebies.

Fuck, how long had he been talking? And where was Hamilton?

The doorway was clear, as if no man-child had darkened it to begin with. Washington’s unnervingly empathetic gaze wasn’t letting up. For his part, Thomas’ head was swimming—half of his mind still desperately attempting to puzzle out the origins of a post-militant publisher, no matter now hard he tried to remember what the fuck Washington had even said.

Jesus, Thomas was all over the place. He needed to focus. Focus, focus, focus. Needed to get out. Needed to hit something, probably. Needed to forget he’d ever made such a miscarried foray into polite society, definitely.

A very small, very quiet, part of Thomas just wanted to know if he could go home. 

He ignored it.

Instead, he forced a smile onto his face and hoped desperately that it didn’t look as stilted as it felt, “It’s no trouble. Truly. I apologize for taking up so much of your time, Mr. Washington.” 

Thomas had every intention to follow that statement up with a quick escape—wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. He would’ve gotten away with it, too, but only got one foot out the door before that over-warm hand was on his shoulder again.

In an uncharacteristic fit of reasonability, Thomas resisted slapping it away. It was a real close thing, though.

He didn’t bother turning around. By this point, Thomas could’ve lived peacefully without making eye contact with anyone ever again, thanks, although Washington didn’t seem to get the hint, “You did very well today.”

Thomas didn’t know what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

“I don’t know what the fu—aw, shi—shoot! Shoot, uh, I meant to say shoot—I don’t know what you mean, sir. By that, I mean. Sir. Uh—I don’t know what you mean by that, sir,” And whoops, there Thomas went and put his entire fucking foot into his mouth, and he couldn’t even bring himself to feel surprised about it.

He was scrubbing at his face again with palms he could barely fucking feel, and Washington hadn’t even moved his baseball-mitt-ass-looking hand off his shoulder yet. Still fucking talking against all odds, “You held your temper in the face of irrationality. You maintained politeness in the face of unreasonableness.” Thomas heard a low chuckle, but it barely registered, “The invitation to brawl, admittedly, wasn’t ideal; although I appreciate your attempt to organize the dispute after-hours.”

There was a pregnant pause.

Thomas didn’t know what Washington wanted from him.

Jesus, he was so tired. He settled for an answer he couldn’t possibly stumble over, “Thanks?”

Since nothing made sense anymore, it wasn't exactly shocking that this won Thomas another laugh. A sincere one, at that. If he had more energy, he’d give himself another point on the scoreboard, “These are all attributes I value in a potential secretary, Mr. Jefferson. Although I had not intended to administer a field test alongside the interview, your customer service skills have exceeded my expectations. Assuming you choose to forgive Mr. Hamilton’s indiscretions—and that you will aspire to keep threats of bodily harm to a minimum while on the clock—you may expect a call from our office within the next twenty-four hours finalizing the details.”

Another pregnant pause.

Thomas still didn’t know what the fuck Washington wanted from him, but he was starting to get the idea.

Jesus. He was so tired. 

Despite how it may have looked, Thomas wasn’t an idiot. Did pretty well in school, really, up until the day he dropped out. He didn’t regret it. Not like he could’ve done anything with a Bachelor’s in History, anyway.

So, right there in the threshold of Washington’s itsy-bitsy office, a couple things became crystal fucking clear. Thomas wasn’t an idiot, and Washington had ulterior motives. Washington, of all folks—what, with his tragic backstory and sympathetic face—had set Thomas up to succeed for God knows what reason. No other reason to offer him the gig, not after that fiasco. Big dude hadn’t even finished all his interviews, and Thomas had been set up enough times to know how to spot a snake in the grass.

The inquisitive part of Thomas—the part that never stopped, never stayed still, not even when he needed to fucking _concentrate_ —wanted nothing more than to figure out the catch. Because, duh, there was a catch. Maybe James had some blackmail on the guy. Maybe he really was afraid Thomas would file a complaint over Hamilton’s warm reception. Maybe Washington was a narc, an old soldier picked up by the feds, and this whole fucking company was a deep-cover operative designed to finally, _finally_ , bring Thomas to justice or—

Or maybe Washington felt sorry for him. Simple as that. Maybe he thought he was doing some old-fashioned, Christian charity work by taking Thomas in under his wing. Saving him from his circumstances. Poor, pitiful, PTSD Thomas. 

The thought left a sour taste in the back of his throat.

And right there, in the threshold of Washington’s itsy-bitsy office, Thomas wanted to throw a fucking fit. Starting deep in his core and steeping, like a tainted water tower infecting an entire city, Thomas was furious. He wanted to turn around and show Washington exactly where he could put his fucking pity, his charities, his chances.

He wanted to yell, wanted to remind Washington of the folks in his lobby—the good folk, clean folk, folk deserving of a real fucking job—who’d been led on this wild fucking goose hunt just for Washington to pick favorites by his fourth interview.

Wanted to remind Washington that Thomas had never worked in any fucking office, never even worked a cash register. Customer service skills? Christ.

Wanted Washington to know, in thrilling detail, exactly how Thomas would _forgive_ his little buddy Hamilton if he ever caught him out in the street.

Wanted—God, how he wanted—to see Washington’s face when he gave him an honest resume, a neat little body count listed on the margins right alongside the cartels masquerading as businesses he’d ‘worked’ at. Then they could talk about finalizing details. Then they could talk about professional consultations. Then they could find out exactly how far Washington’s endless empathy could stretch.

Wanted, desperately, to turn his brain off. Just for a second. 

Thomas counted to ten. Counted down from ten. Thought about James, who trusted him. James, who meant well and thought Thomas had PTSD and told his boss before he’d even mentioned it to Thomas and—

Concentrate, Thomas.

He settled for an answer he couldn’t possibly stumble over, “Thanks.”

And if Thomas had been a better man, a stronger man, he might’ve at least told Washington to hear out the rest of his aspiring hopefuls. As he was shrugging out of his grip and bee-lining out of the building, Thomas might’ve let Washington know that the last thing he wanted was to work at some shitty publishing company out of goddamned pity. Even as he was walking, right past his bus stop and onward, ever onward, he might’ve turned around and marched back to let Washington know he really was better off without Thomas, anyway.

He hefted the thirty-rack onto the counter, “And a pack of Marlboro reds, short, please.”

The cashier gave him a once-over as she scanned his items, and the bags under her eyes looked like the most honest empathy Thomas had received all day, “Long morning?” 

His laugh was short and mirthless, “Long as any, darlin’.”

No pot before the drug test. That was fine.

James hadn’t said shit about drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyooooo thanks for reading! y'all are the tightest and i wanna marry all of you!!!
> 
> i struggled a little bustin this one out, tell you the truth, but imma bust thru this writing block dont even sweat. god willing and the creek does not rise, you can expect an update next saturday  
> lmao also pls have mercy on me dont have a beta and i usually miss some str8 dumbass mistakes whoops
> 
> title 100% lifted from notion, by kings of leon bc thats how i feel abt thomas all day errday. he's such a doggam mess honestly


	4. all you have is your fire and the place you need to reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all, this is an apology chapter for my insufferable tardiness????? wow yikes @ me
> 
> but anyway its alex pov so?? not really a good reward imo

“—and _then_ he fucking called me Hasstiltson! How the fuck do you even get that out of Hamilton? I swear to God, I really think he was just stringing words together. It’s not even a hard name to pronounce, I mean, honestly. _‘Ham-il-ton’._ If he can pronounce ‘sycophant’, he can figure out ‘Hamilton’. Like, yeah, I’m from the Caribbean, but my name is pretty Anglo-Saxton, you know? And don’t even get me started on Washington, because—”

A grumble came from Alexander’s righthand side, sounding suspiciously like the word, “Jesus.” It was enough to give him pause, but mostly because he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone and was slightly startled.

He begrudgingly held his tongue as he turned to face his coworker-cum-confidante, who looked as if he was maybe ready to punch him. Alexander didn’t think he really would, though. He could read people pretty well, in his humble opinion.

For instance, he read John Laurens as a good man and a good friend. Friendly. Good sense of humor. Zesty, even. Definitely had more bite than bark if you caught him riled up. Best of all, nine times out of ten, he knew how to take Alexander in stride.

This must have been the tenth time, Alexander supposed. 

“Back with me, Alex?” John sighed with his whole body, curling in on himself until he’d taken The Thinker position. 

Alexander opened his mouth to answer, but John was charging right on ahead, “Look, man, I’m listenin’ and all, but this is the third time you’ve told me about the bathroom guy Washington interviewed today. Nothing personal, but I’ve been on the front lines with the contenders all morning. And I’m with you! Barbarians, the whole gamut. Throw ‘em out—hear, hear, and all that. Seriously, if I never see another applicant at this place, it’ll be too soon.” He let out a grunt as he unfolded himself, rubbing a freckled hand over his eyes, “So, we’re on the same page. It’s all been established. Let’s, I dunno, maybe take a couple deep breaths and enjoy our lunch break?”

The _‘without talking about work’_ was implicit, and Alexander briefly considered pretending he hadn’t picked up on it and ploughing forward anyway.

Although, after a quick examination, Alexander could admit that he was looking kind of pitiful. Gone was John’s usual vim and vigor, replaced by the type of resentful vigilance that could only be obtained by way of excessive caffeine intake. His curly ponytail had fallen apart, replaced by a frizzy mass that may have become sentient in its wilderness; it seemed to have consumed the hair tie entirely, and Alexander winced as imagined him fishing it out at the end of the day. Swollen, over-rubbed eyes peered back at him accusingly, as if they suspected he had been the one to install the bags beneath them. Alexander was mildly abashed to admit that he very well may have.

It was almost enough to make Alexander have mercy and declare a verbal ceasefire. 

Almost.

“John, I mean this in the utmost seriousness when I say that I cannot rest knowing that charlatan may be my successor as Washington’s right-hand man.”

The groan his friend emitted seemed to have been agonizingly ripped from him, reminiscent of the wail a wounded animal might release once caught in the maw of some great predator. Alexander tried, unsatisfactorily, not to be somewhat flattered by the sentiment. He watched with great dispassion as John shifted his gaze heavenward, hands clasped as if in prayer.

And, yes, now that he was looking, he could make out an almost imperceptible movement in John’s lips. Prayer, indeed.

He may have personally found the gesture to be a tad dramatic, but nonetheless, he had never known himself to be an inhospitable companion. Alexander had enough compassion to allow John a moment of unbroken solidarity to barter with higher powers, head bowed in sympathy. It was with sage patience that he counted—very slowly, mind you!—to ten before glancing up.

“It was like Washington didn’t even care, you know? He even had his hand—”

“—on Jefferson’s shoulder when you walked in?” John looked like he might cry, but his voice was blessedly vacant.

Alexander, very reasonably, decided a good compromise was to not look at his face, “Yeah! And even after—”

“—even after Jefferson threatened you, Washington still told you to get out of his office instead of him?” John cut him off again, and man, he really didn’t want to look up and see him crying. Alexander focused intently on the slowly percolating coffee pot in the corner of the employee break room, taking solace in the familiar crackle of a fresh brew.

John didn’t understand. This was a potentially hazardous state of affairs, and he couldn’t just idly watch the trainwreck unfurl.

“Well, yes, and then—”

“—and then he told you that you weren’t a soldier anymore and asked you to chill?” Alexander finally chanced a glance over to John, who seemed to have recovered enough to regain a little snark. His elbows were resting on the table like some sort of heathen, and when he caught Alexander’s gaze he affected a look of deep consideration, “Gee, I like this part of the story, Alex.” John feigned a cough into the crook of his elbow as he muttered, “Y’know, because _we’re not._ Not soldiers anymore—but, anyway, I think it might be pretty good advice. Maybe we could just chill, huh? He’d never see it coming! That would show him. He’d be beggin’ you to crawl back up his ass by the end of the day, I’m sure of it.”

Alexander prided himself on only bristling slightly, hands fisting on the knees of his slacks, because he was a salesman first and foremost. He could definitely get John on board with this if he would only just listen, “Excuse me? I’m only worried about the sanctity of this whole company, John!” He spat out his name like a curse before remembering to dial it back. This was a pitch, after all. “This is a wholesome company that we—if you’ll recall—helped to build up from nothing! Forgive me if I’d like to feel secure in the quality of our workforce. Besides, if we gang up on Washington and explain that we don’t want to hire any dickheads—”

It was then that John stood up from the table, the slap of his palms echoing in the sparsely furnished room, “Then we would have no new hires. None. Nil. Zip, zilch, zero. They all, each and every one, suck mad ass. I’ve looked every one of those fuckers dead in the eye today, Alex, and I’ve still got seven waiting for me in—what? Forty minutes, when we go back in?”

Alexander watched with morbid interest as John stormed to the half-full coffee pot to refill a well-worn thermos before whirling, stomping back to plant a firm hand on his shoulder, “Alex, I love you. No hard feelings. But, that said, I’m gettin’ the fuck out of here. Good luck with G-Wash, big guy.”

And with a salute, he was making his way toward the door.

Alexander wouldn’t say that he jumped up or anything, but he found himself dogging John’s heels in record time, “What? Where are you even going?”

John was gaining ground quick, cutting corners in the halls as if the devil himself was in hot pursuit. Which was little more than a display of unabashed melodrama, if you asked Alexander. Not that anyone had. 

He barely caught John’s response as he dodged through the doorway into the lobby, “Who knows? Might go day-drinking. Fine a time as any.” 

Alexander managed to catch the weighted door before it slammed in his face, “You fucking wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

And in broad daylight, Alexander found himself standing dead center of the city’s bustling sidewalks, yelling after a retreating bushel of brown curls, “You’re a coward, John Laurens!”

“Say ‘hi’ to Washington for me, tiger!” came the far-flung response, and even from a distance Alexander could make out the toothy grin when John glanced back.

That little shit. 

“No hard feelings,” Alexander mocked in an, admittedly poor, imitation of John’s hearty staccato as he closed the door behind him with slightly more force than necessary.

It wasn’t that he had any hard feelings, truthfully, but it was the principle of the matter. John traditionally took his side on such matters of grave importance, was all. He and John’s were friends—comrades in arms! That had applied in the barracks and in the office in largely equal measure, and Alexander would be insincere if he said he wasn’t disappointed by his desertion.

The complaint would seem more feasible with multiple backers, after all.

No issue. If a poor support system had ever held him back before, Alexander would have gotten nowhere fast. He wasn’t a stranger to taking things into his own hands, and he considered it to be something of a creative medium. Like he was a trapeze artist, striking that needle-thin balance between initiative and insubordination. 

Calculated boldness. It’s what had led to his upward mobility within the military—heartily dappled with punishment, but what was reward without the risk? It’s what had fostered Washington’s trust, allowing Alexander to help mold the formative years of Revolutionary Publishing, Incorporated. 

And nine times out of ten, it got Alexander what he wanted.

He stopped just shy of Washington’s office, hand hovering on the doorknob instinctually, as his feet had carried him without his mind’s consent. 

He forced himself half a step back. Alexander couldn’t afford to be hasty about this. Washington didn’t listen to rambles, didn’t pay heed to evangelists—no matter how impassioned—without an argument built upon layers of fact. And, alright, so maybe he had less hard evidence in this case than he would prefer to, but with enough effort it could make a solid grievance. A little feasible embellishment never hurt anybody.

He needed to collect himself. He needed to focus. 

He took in a deep breath. Counted to ten. Counted down from ten. Took that last half-step forward and lifted his hand to knock—

“—take full responsibility, Mr. Washington, truly. I suppose thought—well. I’m not sure what I thought. I should have known better, certainly. I should have warned you against breaching the subject, and I apologize for setting you in the path of any discomfort, sir. I only hoped—blast, words never come when you need them to, do they?—I suppose I hoped he might listen to you, sir, should the topic arise. With me, he—well, I mean—nevermind, that. His attentiveness to my nagging is hardly why I came to you, sir. I only hoped to apologize for being so presumptuous. While I do not regret informing you of his condition, I should have warned you of his likely reticence.”

It wasn’t Washington’s voice, obviously. Alexander’s hand rested on the cool panel of the doorway, long since having foregone its intentions of knocking. Washington had an audience—with grave subject matter on the table, by the sound of it—and he wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted, Alexander knew. He had ought turn around and come back later. Immediately. He knew that.

Too curious for his own good, his mother had always called him.

Well. Maybe so, at that, although he couldn’t help but feel that a healthy dose of curiosity had gotten him out of trouble more often than into it. From Nevis to New York, it never hurt to keep your ear to the ground. Conflict and opportunity, he found, were strange bedfellows.

A shameless gossip, Lafayette had always called him. 

Well. Maybe so, but Alexander could almost swear it sounded like—

“Mr. Madison, I assure you, it’s no trouble,” came Washington’s resounding boom, and Alexander absolutely _knew_ he had heard James Madison wheezing around in there. And if he took another half-step forward, angling an ear toward the entrance, who was there to witness it? “It’s an affliction I’m familiar with and feel strongly about. It isn’t something a person had ought to manfully withstand for the sake of withstanding, and it is equally difficult to watch a friend struggle with. I wouldn’t dream to fault your desire to assist Mr. Jefferson. I can only hope that, should he accept his position with us, he takes advantage of the coverage our healthcare plan offers.”

And wasn’t that a full box for Alexander to unpack. 

Madison and Washington were discussing that motherfucking Jefferson guy, because of course they were. Why wouldn’t they be? No more than two hours in the office, and Jefferson had managed to inconvenience Alexander even in his attempts to seek an audience with his own boss. Absolutely typical.

Fucking Jefferson.

How did he even know Madison, anyhow? It wasn’t like Madison had friendships, not really. Even when Alexander had worked at his side for months during the company’s infancy, he’d been held at an arm’s length. Alexander hadn’t taken it personally, of course, because that was simply how Madison was. He did his share of the policy writing—more than assigned, but not too much more, which essentially summed up the entirety of his disposition—and proceeded to recluse back into himself.

In speaking to Washington about Jefferson, Madison had probably spoken longer than Alexander had ever heard him outside of an official staff meeting. He’d even sounded somewhat impassioned. Madison, of all people. Impassioned about some bumfuck hillbilly. What an increasingly complex world it was.

And that wasn’t even touching the whole ‘affliction’ plotline Washington was feeling so mushy about. Had to be something chronic. Probably serious, since Washington had never extended any olive branches to potential candidates on the basis of arthritis.

Alexander, who had felt he was pretty well-read on the interests of his direct supervisor, was left grasping at straws. Washington had never been especially over-zealous on the front of any illnesses, really. Didn’t herald the coming of any specific awareness-month. It must’ve been a pretty tragic backstory to get him all hot and bothered.

Was Jefferson some kind of trailer-trash Walter White? Refusing to seek out cancer treatment for fear of further-impoverishing his wife and kids? Alexander almost doubted he was making meth on the side, though. Took a lot of chemistry. Definite measurements. Guy probably had to whip out his extra toes to count past twenty, to begin with. 

Alexander felt his hand fist against the door, biting his lip to avoid the untimely escape of any building expletives. The worst of the entire spiel was equally incomprehensible. Did Washington actually suggest he was giving Jefferson the position? He couldn’t. Alexander must’ve misheard. Washington was a man of honor, and—

“Sir? I apologize, but—you haven’t finished your interviews.” It was the gladdest Alexander had ever been to hear Madison’s warbling monotone, because at least someone was still talking sense, “It isn’t that I wouldn’t like to see him join the company, sir, but you surely haven’t already made your decision?”

A low chuckle, and Alexander’s heart was in his shoes before Washington had even spoken, “I certainly plan to keep an open mind, Mr. Madison. Should anyone equally promising walk through my door, I may even find myself hard-pressed in making the final decision. 

“Between the two of us, however? I feel that Mr. Jefferson has potential. And, forgive my presumptuousness, I suspect that you may be the only man pushing him to realize it. I’ll admit I may, in my geriatric chapter, have grown something of a tendency toward enabling harried youths who ask for only half a chance. The hubris of man, if you will. Regardless, I have every intention to call him at the close of the final interview. It is for Mr. Jefferson to decide.”

And this time, truly, Alexander was ready to turn tail. He had heard enough to know he would not be especially welcome at the adjournment of the meeting. Should he be caught eavesdropping on Jefferson’s defense, his subsequent offence would seem disingenuous at best. 

He knew this.

But, by God, the ensuing pause stretched long enough to pique Alexander’s interest all over again, “Mr. Washington, have you seen Thomas’ physical application? Did he list a phone number?” Madison sounded too halting. Trouble afoot, and Alexander could all but taste it.

Rightfully confused, came Washington’s “Yes, of course: on both accounts.”

And another forsaken pause before an especially put-upon wheeze from Madison, “He hasn’t got a cell phone, sir. I’m nearly positive he’s listed mine, if one at all. He always does. I would, however, be glad to relay the information to him this evening, if that would be satisfactory?”

It was, perhaps, immature an unrealistic to assume that would be Washington’s breaking point. Regardless, Alexander was still disappointed at his good-natured tone, “That poses me no inconvenience, Mr. Madison. There isn’t an especially tight deadline on this affair, to begin with.”

Since when had Washington gotten so soft, anyway? No matter how deep he delved, Alexander couldn’t quite pinpoint any moment in particular. It had to have happened at some point, though, because General Washington wouldn’t have dealt with any of this fiasco. He would’ve levelled Jefferson and Madison both with his stoniest stare and sent them packing, Alexander was sure of it. 

And he must’ve been reminiscing a smidge too fondly, or he’d have realized that there wasn’t anything to cause the lull of conversation. No shoe waiting to drop. It was only a long, gentle silence and a door opening directly into his fucking face.

Hard.

“Jesus fucking—” his hand was on his nose—which felt like it might be fucking bleeding, actually—and his eyes were caught in the crosshairs of Madison’s steeliest glare. Those soft, rheumy eyes could sharpen like a blade when they wanted to, which was pretty unfair.

“Hamilton,” and he didn’t even sound perturbed, because of course he fucking didn’t, “I’m glad I caught you. Mind if I speak to you for a moment?”

Hand on his nose—which, yes, bleeding—dignity dropped out on the pavement when he’d yelled after John’s retreat, and Alexander didn’t feel like he had anything to lose when he mumbled, “Yeah, sure.”

He didn’t hate Madison, but the guy could be damned inconvenient. 

Quick little bastard, to boot. How he got those diminutive legs to outpace Alexander’s own, he wasn’t sure. Okay, well, maybe their legs were of a similar length. Whatever. The point was that Madison was supposed to be asthmatic, or something, and Alexander was having to high-step it just to beat him to the break room. 

Out of breath and resigned to mouth breathing. Blood dripping down the length of his arm, stemming from the hand stuffed ungracefully below his nose. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to speak to Washington. 

Fucking Jefferson.

Alexander valiantly attempted to mask the nasally effect of his bloody nose, for the sake of whatever pride he had left, “So. You wanted to see me?” He thought it might’ve even worked.

It was then that things became something of a blur, really. 

When Madison batted his hand out from under his nose, it was with slightly more force than necessary. Might even have been considered an honest-to-God slap, if Alexander hadn’t known better. It certainly hit at exactly the wrong angle, causing him to hit himself in the nose pretty effectively.

At first, Alexander was shaken up by the sheer pettiness of the action. Did Madison want him to get blood everywhere? Couldn’t be. He really didn’t think it was an intentional slight, anyway. Madison wasn’t really a confrontational guy. He’d never even heard him raise his voice.

Downside was, his nose was bleeding worse than it had been to begin with. Absolutely inconvenient. So he was at least a little distracted by the time Madison had a solid grip on his collar.

And boy, was it a solid grip.

Alexander was almost positive something shady was afoot by the time his back hit the wall. He was also almost positive that it was getting harder to breathe as the hand tightened around his collar. Madison’s scowl seemed to encompass his entire range of vision.

Blood dripping down his nose, his neck, his button-up, and Alexander couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe Madison was letting blood get onto his suit. Couldn’t believe how embarrassing it was that Madison was going to kill him, probably.

Madison, of all people. Stronger than you’d think, really. The hand wasn’t budging, even if he tugged at it. And he did, you know.

All the combat training in the world, and the sheer surprise of it all had Alexander in shock. Possibly about to die by Madison’s hand. It was almost a novel experience.

Fresh off the boat, this never would’ve happened. Wouldn’t have happened in the military, either, for that matter. An entire lifetime of preparation for a moment just like this. Alexander used to be ready, always ready. Didn’t trust anybody. Couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder.

He wondered when he’d stopped glancing.

It’s what General Washington would call ‘outmaneuvered’.

“Do I have your attention?” And, by God, what could he do but nod? At least Madison had loosened up on his throat after he did, “Alexander, let me be very clear. I don’t particularly care about your intentions in antagonizing Thomas. I don’t care about what you’re trying to accomplish by crying to Mr. Washington. I don’t care who started it. I don’t care. It will stop, and it will stop now. 

“Thomas has been working incredibly hard to improve himself. He has made extraordinarily difficult progress in an uphill battle that is likely unfathomable to you, in your nebulous narcissism. The last thing he needs is you, nosing around and goading him into these petty squabbles. You are a setback at best, Mr. Hamilton. An inconvenience that I am unwilling to suffer. Let me be clear. Thomas deserves a chance, and I will not have your overactive testosterone block any potential opportunities for him. Please, listen, for once in your meddlesome life. Steer clear of him, and the two of us will return the favor.”

And just like that, Alexander was on his knees. Released. Heaving for breath. Blood on his suit. Dignity lost on the street, with John Laurens, who definitely would not have let that happen if he’d only stuck around for lunch. 

And there was Madison, the absolute motherfucker, looking entirely unruffled. Madison, who was supposed to be Very Feeble and Probably Asthmatic. Blood was on his suit, too, as it happened—just enough along the cuff of his sleeve for Alexander to verify that, no, it wasn’t even a fever dream. 

It was just goddamned embarrassing.

Alexander thought he might still be in shock. He hadn’t gotten up yet, anyway.

So when Madison offered him a paper towel and a hand, what could he do but take them? “Thanks, I guess,” Alexander felt his mouth move without his brain’s explicit permission. He didn’t like that. He took a decent deal of pleasure out of knowing precisely what he wanted to say, when he wanted to say it. He supposed it was okay, just this once.

“Please, never speak to me again outside of the professional capacity,” was the reply he got, so he supposed it wasn’t okay, after all. Madison was gone. Lesson was learned. 

Alexander felt as if he was moving underwater, and his vision was still a little soft around the edges. It felt like Nevis, somehow. Like slipping back into old clothes that somehow still fit after years of disuse. Like bloody noses, and choke holds, and moving underwater. Water was everywhere in Nevis.

It felt like coming home.

Distantly, he was still a little miffed about getting blood on his suit. It would stain, he knew. It was his favorite suit. He wiped clumsily around his face in an attempt to look somewhat presentable.

Lunch was probably almost over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading!! i can only hope that your orchards are fertile and bountiful in this growing season, amen.
> 
> wow. again. so sorry. very late. yikes.
> 
> which blows like hell?? bc i really appreciated every comment i got and i didn't mean to drop off after that but lmao its a metaphor for me as a person i think. 
> 
> stole the chapter name from arsonist's lullaby, by hozier (honorary lesbian of my heart)
> 
> y'all rock. xoxo, dakohtah


	5. say we'll get famous and we'll die with our names in every paper

Realistically, Alexander knew he should be at home. 

He hadn’t stayed out late in—God, a good while. Long enough to make the New York City nights seem exotic all over again. A civilization developed to the point of wilderness—too bright, too fast, too much. Enough to leave him feeling raw, as if each passing skyscraper had been lined with sandpaper. To have his skin prickling, like every passing window was filled to the brim with reproachful eyes. Always with the eyes, everywhere. Each pair watching, unblinking and eternal, for him to slip up. Like everyone knew he was an outsider. He could hear them even when they didn’t speak.

_Immigrant,_ they said. _Foreigner. Alien. Undoc,_ they said, even if he wasn’t. 

_Unwelcome._

An old feeling, new and improved and painful all over again. In so many ways it was just like flipping a light switch. Back, as if it had never gone away. Instant and illuminating. Built into the wiring.

It was a utilitarian emotion. Functional.

Alexander, personally, welcomed it. The incident with Madison hadn’t bothered him, not really, but had served as an excellent reminder to practice his vigilance. He had become complacent in his time with Washington. Consistent meals and housing could do that to a person, he had heard, although he’d never thought he’d find himself resting on his laurels. Perhaps not satisfied, but certainly contented with his circumstances. 

And it was bittersweet, almost, that he had needed reminded so dearly. Alexander usually prided himself on his presence of mind, after all. 

He had almost forgotten, and that was a luxury he simply couldn’t afford. He knew that by standing still, he would inevitably be left behind. He didn’t have the forgiving factors of birthright or fortune to ease his passage, strengthen his presence. No, every inch would cost a mile and he had to keep marching.

He knew that. He had long accepted it as writ. He didn’t mind.

No, really, he didn’t.

It suited him well, most days. He would rather make every minute count, use every precious resource he had in his arsenal to build something real. To build anything real.

And leisure wouldn’t be the key to it, not at all. Alexander knew he should be at home. He would rather be at home. Would rather throw himself into work, prove himself all over again, like he had when he’d first arrived in the city.

He could prove he was worthwhile. He was an asset. 

He was, he was, he was.

So, he worked. Alexander had hardly left his apartment for the last month, opting instead to spend his evenings revising Revolutionary Publishing’s financial plan with a fervor that often bordered on religious. Maybe it was, in a way. The more he worked, the more valuable he became. His habits, objectively, were not unlike prayer. Late nights, cramping fingers, blurred vision bouncing off of a screen’s glare—they all cemented his place in the world. Secured his seat in heaven, maybe. Ensured he was been too successful to ship to hell, certainly.

Alexander hated extended metaphors. He knew it was philosophical nonsense. The same way he knew it all rang true, clear and sweet like church bells along the coastline, because of course it did. 

Semantics. None of it changed the bottom line.

Labor was deliverance.

He knew that.

It wasn’t Alexander’s fault no one else understood. How could they? He was surrounded by natives. Monolingual natives from nuclear families. Nothing to prove. Nothing to be afraid of. 

Lafayette would be the exception, of course, if only he hadn’t been rich. Sometimes that made all the difference, a little bit of money in the right pockets. The thin line between immigrant and globetrotter was usually located along the class divide, and Alexander understood that. It wasn’t like it bothered him, not really. 

Alexander was sure to suppress the realization that—on especially lonesome evenings—a small and vindictive part of him wished that Lafayette did have something to prove. Something to be afraid of.

Alexander already knew he didn’t.

If Alexander had been born into a bitter temperament, he might have held it against them. He might have grown to resent the friendly faces always leveling him blank stares, unable to grasp why people like him had to act like they did. He didn’t, though. He couldn’t. He desperately tried not to.

Because Alexander knew better. He knew they couldn’t help it. He only wished they knew he couldn’t help it, either.

Alexander couldn’t help any of it. His friends didn’t understand, but he hadn’t expected them to. They usually humored him, even when they pressed a bit too hard on his tender spots. They hadn’t been especially enthused at the impassioned renewal of his more obsessive tendencies, obviously, but what did they know?

Not enough, never quite enough. He knew that. Tried to anticipate it, because couldn’t expect anything more. 

No one would ever know quite enough about how laborious budget panning could be. No one knew enough about Nevis, or enough about Alexander, for their opinions to feel pertinent. He had made peace with it, most days.

Retrospectively, Alexander could see that he’d been off the mark by trying to balance out his agenda to begin with. After his term of service had ended, everything had felt so simple. Like he really could become someone else, someone more than who he’d been when he went it. Like he could live in the moment, let it carry him like an ocean current.

Like he could ever move past Nevis and every discordant feeling he’d compartmentalized, tucked away alongside his sparse baggage, and carried across the sea when he’d left the island.

The naivety of youth was perpetually bittersweet, and Alexander knew that now. Felt almost foolish, looking back at it. Hook, line, and sinker, he’d allowed himself to become lackadaisical. Taking breaks, taking his time, and taking the advice of natives. Since when did he subscribe to the gullibility of good intentions? 

No matter. He knew better now. The finished product would speak for itself, after all.

And so, he’d made slight alterations to his day-to-day. Nothing major. Nothing incriminating. See, Alexander thrived under structure. Needed a line to toe, because if he excelled in anything, it was pushing the envelope. He knew how to maximize his own productivity. He knew that, to make any sort of leeway on a project, he had to immerse himself in it. Alexander wasn’t especially Draconian, didn’t see a point in holding himself to any rigid itinerary. His daily life only resembled a pattern for his own convenience.

No, really. Alexander couldn’t fathom why anyone would make a big deal out of it. It was simple time management.

Wake up. Work. Catch the bus to the office. Work. Catch the bus to the apartment. Work.

Sleep wormed its way into his schedule, most days, but he never set time aside for it. Rest would settle itself in the margins, he knew. Results would not.

It was more sustainable than it looked on paper, he was sure of it. He was the one living it, at any rate, rendering him nothing less than a qualified expert. And regardless of how many especially dour glances John sent his way during office hours, Alexander didn’t feel that he’d done anything worth repenting. Efficiency wasn’t a crime. 

That’s what it was, at its core. Efficiency. His adapted schedule had done wonders for his productivity, after all. 

No, really, it had. And no one could tell him otherwise. At least, not in so many words.

A bit unnecessary to work so far ahead of his deadlines, Washington had reminded him. As if Alexander needed to be told how to do his job. Like he wasn’t the best thing that had ever happened to the finance department since his promotion. Alexander wanted to be disgusted, wanted to rail against the forces of time that had softened Washington’s hardest edges. He needed those edges now, more than ever. Nothing tender had ever done him any favors.

A horror for his circadian rhythm, Lafayette had called it. Subtle as you please. Murmured, as if a tone too shrill would leave him shattered like blown glass. Classic Lafayette, to hold Alexander hostage in his own apartment with a too-gentle squeeze on his bicep. As if Alexander needed his fucking bicep squeezed, ever. He didn’t even want it, not really. Not most days.

A slippery slope into accidental anorexia, Hercules had suggested. Pressed a muffin, of all things, into Alexander’s hollowed palms. Still warm. Homemade. Banana nut, which had made Alexander irrationally angry. His favorite kind of muffin, and he couldn’t even enjoy it knowing how it’d been warped into some sort of bargaining chip. Alexander didn’t need bribed into idleness. He didn’t need anything. He really didn’t. 

A fucking mess, Alexander, honestly—but that one had been John, so it hadn’t quite stung his pride the way it might have from someone else. John had known Alexander before. Before he’d become so stagnant, so trusting. Before he’d been given a major role in building Revolutionary Publishing, Incorporated up from nothing. Before General Washington had looked at him like a person, an honest-to-God trooper, instead of a kid with an Islander accent. Before they’d signed up with the Army recruiter together—as _children,_ Jesus Christ, they were just children playing soldier back then—promising to keep in touch even if they ended up in separate platoons.

Before he’d lost that desperate glint in his eye that spelled him out, clear as day, as a stranger in a strange land. As if he had somehow gotten lost, hopelessly lost and at least a little homesick, to the point of desperation. The one that made cashiers eye him warily, even if Alexander never so much as took his hands out of his pockets.

Before he’d lost the nervous tic he’d used to have, the embarrassing one, that made his throat clench and gulp compulsively. As if it was afraid of taking in an errant mouthful of ocean water, salty and cold. The one that made their Drill Sargent angrier than maybe any other bullshit Alexander pulled, even though he really couldn’t help it. 

John had known Alexander before. It was everyone—everything—else that came after. He trusted John pretty well.

Still wished that he would maybe take a step back, at least, but Alexander could see where he was coming from. Even before, when they hadn’t really owned the uniforms on their backs, they had one another. Brotherhood, almost. An emotion that couldn’t be shut off like a light switch. He could make his peace with that. He might have even—on especially lonesome evenings—found comfort in it.

Everyone else could stand to back the fuck up out of his business, though. Alexander wasn’t an orphan in need of guidance, hadn’t been for nearly two decades. He didn’t need anyone to hold his hand. Didn’t want to owe anyone for watching his back when it didn’t need watched.

Alexander couldn’t figure out what they wanted from him. 

“We just want you to acknowledge the fact that you’re fucking self-destructing for no good reason, Alex. Jesus Christ,” John was all but hanging over the side of the passenger seat in front of Alexander as he delivered his two cents. Not that he had asked for it, but there it was.

Alexander tried, with little success, not to feel like a petulant child as he crossed his arms over his chest, “Look, this is cute and all, but I literally have no time for this. I’ve got so much work to do, and I don’t see where you fuckers get off on kidnapping me from my own office.” In his own defense, he figured it was nigh impossible not to come off as a chastised delinquent from the back of Hercules’ trailblazer. Clearly a power move. A premeditated attack, certainly, and he planned to treat it as such, “Let me go home and I won’t press charges.”

“Nah,” and Goddamn it all, it was hard to be angry at someone who sounded so collected, “You’re doing fine right where you are, big guy,” Hercules seemed to slip into his role as Alexander’s keeper as easily as he might slip into well-worn boots. How he seemed to simultaneously give all of his attention to the road and Alexander—with an especially keen eye piercing him through the rearview mirror—both was only attributable to a strange type of parental sorcery previously latent in his system. 

Alexander hated latent parental sorcery. Hated it nearly as much as he hated being patronized.

“I’ll jump out of the fucking car, Herc, don’t you dare think that I won’t.”

Lafayette tittered—fucking tittered, of all things—beside him, “You need to relax, Alexander. We are your friends, yes? You might trust us from time to time.”

Lafayette, as per usual, was soft. Every piece of him, as if he had applied some lavish skin-cream to his temperament as well as the plush hands brushing Alexander’s wrist.

And, look, Alexander didn’t snatch it back. He knew better, but Jesus, he wanted to.

Alexander had never been able to afford soft things. He didn’t even want them, usually.

He made sure his eyes brooked no room for argument, unrelentingly forward. Always forward, because he’d never had a place to go back to. Gaze steady, steadier than he’d held any M9, “John, get me out of here.” It wasn’t a last-ditch effort, by any means. Alexander told himself that very firmly, and he almost believed it. 

He was, however, acutely aware that if anyone could pick up on the long-buried itch emerging under his skin at a glance, it would be John. He was kind of banking on it, actually.

If John was so dead-set on pitying him, fine.

He could use that. 

As it happens, Alexander’s money was only slightly displaced. The softening of John’s demeanor from over the bucket seat was gratifying until the second he opened his mouth, “Alex, bud, just tell us what’s going on. If you really want us to take you home we will, but not until we get some answers. Or, like, at least one,” he seemed to mull it over for a moment, scratching absently at his cheek, “One good answer, anyway. Not some squirrelly cop-out bullshit, alright?”

It shouldn’t have felt like a betrayal, and yet, “No one above the fucking Mason-Dixon line uses squirrel-centric adjectives, John.”

Hercules caught his eye with a gaze minutely keener than its predecessor, “Lashing out and avoidance maneuvers are included in the umbrella classification of ‘squirrelly cop-out bullshit,’ Alexander.”

Damn. 

Luckily, Alexander was spared the scrutiny by a somewhat jarring burst of movement from Lafayette, who was honestly a menace when it came to speaking with his hands, “Now, hold on just a moment, Hercules. We have all night to play Spanish Inquisition, but for now—I’d like to go back to what you said, Alexander. Is there some faceless, nefarious host of squirrel-centric adjectives that I’ve not been made aware of? I’d accuse you of being hyperbolic, but I would delight in being wrong.”

And it was an out, obviously.

Lafayette was giving him an out. Or a reprieve, at the very least.

Alexander almost felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him, even as he opened his mouth to answer. It was oddly touching, really, to be reminded that Lafayette was an ally. That his friends could be considered allies, even when they pitted themselves against him.

“Eh,” John ambled with a sort of half-aborted shrug—as if Lafayette had been speaking to him from the start, like being from North Carolina made him some sort of authority on southern gobbledygook—slumping back into his seat, “I’d say ‘squirrelly’ is about it by way of adjectives, Laf. Sorry. I mean, you could make an argument for squirrel-centric linguistics—like, referring to hoarders as ‘squirrels’ metaphorically—but really that’s as far as you could carry it. It’s a party of two for squirrel-centric language, even below the Mason-Dixon line.”

“Huh,” Hercules soliloquized, successfully quelling the flow of conversation, “You guys hungry for anything?”

Alexander had to raise his voice over John and Lafayette’s unified cheer of assent, “No, seriously, I want to go the fuck home.”

He caught a glimpse of Hercules’ raised eyebrow through the rearview mirror, “Oh, sorry, Alex. I thought you were still holding tight with your whole squirrelly avoidance schtick. You gonna let us know what’s been up with you lately?”

“Can you fucking cut it out with the word ‘squirrelly?’”

“I guess the answer is ‘no’ all across the board, in that case.” The eyebrow went back down, and Hercules’ eyes returned to the road. 

What an absolute bastard.

Alexander had been patient. He’d tried to be considerate. Tried to remember that these were, against all rational advisory, his friends. His friends who he loved, or at least could distinctly remember loving. It was harder, these days, to keep track of things so subjective. Easier to check the numbers and see how it looked on paper.

And it wasn’t looking so hot, from an objective standpoint.

But then he remembered John, who knew him. John, who wouldn’t have dragged him along for no good reason. John had his best interests at heart, and that was Alexander’s constant variable. Unchanging.

And no matter how productive it would be, these weren’t bridges he was willing to burn. Not really.

Not most days, anyway.

Better to give it one last college-try, “Look, please, just let me go home. I’m not kidding, the budget needs a lot of improvement from here. If it’s not me, if I don’t fix it, someone else will. I can’t afford to lose my position with the company over this and—Jesus fucking Christ, no one else knows what they’re doing. I gotta work faster, see? Washington has already been letting that—that unqualified motherfucker look over the finance reports, okay? Says he has a background in running a business from home—what kind of Podunk bullshit is that, huh? A business from home, my ass. Probably sold fucking diet pills from an online pyramid scheme. 

“But Washington wont fucking listen! Trying to tell me he has ‘fascinating insight’ on our fund allocation—pulled this gutter rat off the street, and a month later he’s critiquing my whole financial distribution, see? He’ll run the business aground, I know it, and we’ll be fucked. I’ll be fucked. This job—my position—I just, I’ve made a name for myself here, okay? Look, this is all I’ve got, and—I mean. 

“This job, its—it’s mine, okay? See, and if I wanna keep it, I—you know what? Fucking forget it,” Alexander felt himself deflate, and was inexorably reminded of a flat tire. All out of air, and under too much pressure to move the vehicle forward. He probably looked like a Macy’s parade float with a hole in it, crumpling in on himself and horrifying the children. He shrugged, making peace with the mental image, “Look, you wanna waste my time? Go ahead. It’s fine. I’ve crossed the Rubicon, and his name is Thomas fucking Jefferson. May he lay waste to my metaphorical empire evermore, amen.”

The silence that fell over the trailblazer was thick as it was stifling.

Alexander found himself, absently, fantasizing about how simple his life would have been if he had died in the hurricane. Even in memorandum, the waves seemed distant. Sterile. As if it’d been a full lifetime since he’d seen the wreckage unfold.

Amazing that it could feel so far away, when it had hounded his heels so closely he’d never thought to leave it behind. 

Hercules coughed from the driver’s seat, although his omnipresent gaze in the rearview seemed to be studying the road with renewed intensity, “I, uh, knew a guy named Thomas once.”

“Huh,” Alexander didn’t find this information to be especially comforting, but he could appreciate the effort.

John leaped on the opening as a drowning man might a lifesaver, “For real? Wow, small world. Unbelievable, man. Was he a dick, too?”

The ham-sized fist on the steering wheel gave a twitchy little wave in a gesture that inferred the other Thomas to be a ‘so-so’ dick, “Eh, he was alright. Pretty opinionated, that guy. Wrote a lot of political editorials in the paper, you know? Lot like you, Alex. Pretty cool, though. Dude kind’a got booted from the Opinion section after he wrote a couple articles against secular religion, though. Guess the audience wasn’t feelin’ it.” Hercules seemed to chew over his words, “I used to call him ‘T-Paine’. He never really laughed at it. I dunno, I thought it was pretty good.”

John wasn’t ready to let it go, though, and his enthusiasm came off as nearly obscene, “N’aw, man, that’s really good! You’re cutting-edge, Herc, I’m tellin’ ya. Did he, like, have kind of an auto-tuned sounding voice? Or—”

“Nah, his last name was Paine.”

John pushed a few flyaway curls out of his face, “Oh. So, like—Thomas Paine. T-Paine. Oh, I get it, yeah. That’s still pretty good, buddy.” He cleared his throat in a manner that sounded both unnatural and slightly disgusting, “Didn’t you, uh, have a pot dealer named Thomas, too?”

Alexander could see they were grasping for straws and was tempted to throw them a line. Then he remembered the deflated parade float, the terrified children, and figured they could tread water a little longer.

There was only so much empathy a shrunken float could possess.

Hercules gave another little cough, and Alexander could see his eyes dart back toward Lafayette in the backseat, “Uh, yeah. Still do. Pretty nice guy, though.”

Alexander could understand his hesitance. However worldly Lafayette may or may not have been, he was something of a straight-edge. Alexander tried not to snort aloud. Lafayette probably thought living on the edge was having an extra glass of wine after—

“A-ha!” and there was Lafayette, jabbing out his index finger as if he was delivering a winning piece of evidence in court, “A small world, indeed! I also knew a pot dealer named Thomas! He never said he was one, of course. He said he was a ‘plug,’ of course, but it took me a very long time to catch up with these American appliance euphemisms.” Lafayette tightened his ponytail thoughtfully, as though he didn’t notice the three pairs of eyes darting surreptitiously toward him, “Since then, I’ve been vexed by these nicknames. ‘Pot dealer,’ ‘plug’—I’ve decided they had ought to be known as _marijuana merchants_. Catchier, yes? Less ‘p’s involved all around.”

Hercules was the first to test the waters, “Huh.”

“I didn’t even know you smoked, Laf! Is this, like, a recent development? Like a weird romcom where you guys have the same weed guy but kept it hush-hush so neither of y’all thought the other was a pothead? ‘Cause that’d be pretty cute.” John turned in his seat to regard Lafayette appraisingly, “And I’m all in for the marijuana merchant pitch, man. Catcher drug lingo or bust, if you ask me.”

Lafayette’s chuckle was low and melodic, and Alexander was stricken again by how easy he made it all look. As if an immigrant could really say the words ‘marijuana merchant’ unironically and make it sound like music, and yet, “Ah, no, my friend. My Thomas is a relic of the past, as they say. Most certainly of no relation to our Hercules’ weed-wielding companion. I made his acquaintance during my years at Emory & Henry as an international student. He took me under his wing, so to speak. I didn’t know Virginia from Montana in those days—I was a frightful curiosity, you may rest assured. 

“And he,” Lafayette paused, although he hadn’t had to search for the right words in years, “he was my Thomas. _Mon ange,_ I used to call him. _Mon ange. Mon premier amour. Mon Thomas._ ”

John, ever tactful, was quick to chime in, “So, you get down to the States and your first move is to get freaky with a lean, mean, green-slingin’ machine, huh? Had to hook up with the hook-up?”

Alexander and Hercules, having cottoned on to Lafayette’s apparent melancholy, shared a weary look through the overused mirror. The laugh from Alexander’s left, however, was unexpected, “Oh, John, excellent work! You are a quick wit, indeed. For a time, I suppose, yes.” Lafayette gave John a wry grimace, “It was not meant to be. By the time I made arrangements to live in North America, it was only to have a taste of _third_ -wheeling and dealing. _Mon ange,_ he had fallen in love, you see?”

Hercules grunted, and Alexander could relate to the sentiment, “You sure your Thomas wasn’t a dick, too? That sounds pretty shitty.”

“No, _mon chou_ , he was a man in love!” Back were the wide gestures, so Alexander wasn’t especially concerned, “Thomas and Martha were soulmates, of course, if ever a pair existed.” A dismissive wave, perhaps directed toward the car in its entirety, “You would understand had you only seen them, Hercules. Last I visited my Thomas, he planned to give up his illicit employment and whisk _sa dulcinée_ away to the countryside! A love story for the ages!”

“That does sound pretty sweet,” came a begrudging mumble from the front of the car. It was unsurprising, though, because Alexander knew John was a sucker for a good love story, “D’y’all still keep in touch? Did he make it out alive? Or—or maybe he was a part of the mob, yeah? The Virginian Mob. And they couldn’t let him leave without a fight! He probably had to fly by night up the east coast. Make a break for the border into Canada. Probably has a new name, these days.” John was a sucker for a good action love story, to be exact.

Lafayette’s laugh was louder this time, though never abrasive, “I would not know, my friend, although I had ought call Martha to see how the years have treated them. When we last spoke was just before I moved here, to New York. It felt so final, you see—my Thomas never kept a single number for long, and it seemed intrusive to deem sweet Martha as our go-between.” His eyes took on a distant quality, as if he could nearly see them if he only gazed far enough, “He told me to be careful in this Big Apple, but—not to change. He didn’t want me to become hardened by life in the city, he said. Said it would be a _‘damned shame.’_ And as such, here I am! Soft as laundered linens!”

The eyes in the rearview were sweet, now, and tender enough to make Alexander feel somewhat voyeuristic and definitely uncomfortable, “You sure are, Gil. All kinds of soft.”

“Yeah, man, the softest!” John added, helpfully.

“Ah, the sweet bird of youth,” Lafayette grasped Alexander’s hand. He figured it was an inclusionary tactic, but God, it was all so soft, “My Thomas, he always wanted the best for me—even when he was not, strictly, _my_ Thomas. Even as we parted, he offered me friendship, yes? 

“He said to me, _‘Gilbert,’_ ” and Lafayette adopted an exaggerated southern drawl for this bit, much to John’s amusement, “He said— _‘should you find yourself in dire need of company up in that urban jungle,’_ —and mind you, I was fortunate enough not to!— _‘just look for my buddy, Jemmy.’_ Even now, I find the idea to be enchanting: that perhaps, when I am urgently lonesome, I will stumble upon a piece of Thomas even so many miles away. Of course, even if I did meet _a_ James Madison, I doubt it would be the very same—New York is larger than life, so they say. Ah, but still, I seek!”

And right about here, see, is probably when Alexander stopped breathing.

“You’re the best kind of sap, Laf,” Alexander could register Hercules’ voice, but the words didn’t seem to form a sentence. The noise was ambient, like radio static, “McDonald’s cool with y’all?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its me again y'all
> 
> back on my bullshit
> 
> undeserving of you foxy dimepieces out there, puttin' up with allllll this
> 
> let's run away together, ok. it's high time we all went coastal and lived together, like a whole ass community of platonic sisterwives and brotherhusbands. also, title was nicked from first class, by rainbow kitten surprise!! 
> 
> thank you for reading!!! 
> 
> xoxo, dakohtah


End file.
